Phoenix Tears
by phoenixstrike
Summary: HP/DM eventual slash, HP/GW in the beginning. It's been years since Voldemort's defeat, and Harry thought he was done with losing the people he loved. Fate thought otherwise. As it deals Harry its wickedest blow, can Harry ever get over it? And who will be the one to help him rebuild his life? A story of recovery. Please read warnings inside. Heavy angst-filled Drarry fic. EWE.
1. Fate's Cruellest Blow

_Harry Potter and all its indicia are © JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. I own none of the copyright, and this fanfiction makes no money_

**Pairings:** Harry/Ginny, Harry/Draco (main pairing), Ron/Hermione

**Warnings/possible triggers:** Heavy angst in the opening couple of chapters, references to foetal anomalies and late-term abortion (20 weeks). The abortion does NOT happen 'on stage', but is mentioned in the story frequently. Moderate, non-explicit slash sex. Infidelity (on Harry's part, past references) Usual bad language.

**A/N:** Whilst this starts off depressing, it will have a happy ending. Please do heed the warnings and triggers before reading, as it covers a topic some may find upsetting. This story was written after a friend, who feeds me so many plot bunnies (nom nom), asked me very, very nicely (and persistently!) to write this one. So, Brittany my love, this one is for you.

I have no clue yet as to final word count, but it will be more than likely novel length. It will be irregularly updated, so please don't expect a chapter a week.

* * *

**Chapter One: Fate's Cruellest Blow **

_"Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."  
—_Albus Dumbledore

* * *

The 'room in use' sign attached to the heavy grey door belonging to an examination room at University College Hospital, London, gave an audible, ominous snap as the professor of foetal medicine and obstetrics slid it into its hold. Harry Potter followed her, a midwife, and his pregnant spouse into the ultrasound room, carrying a folder of parchment spelled to look like ordinary Muggle paper notes in his right hand. He swallowed loudly, desperately trying to dampen his mouth, which was bone-dry from nerves.

The hospital was far too hot and clinical, and the air had a faint tinge of disinfectant, furniture polish and laundry detergent. The hurried footsteps from overworked members of staff echoed loudly off the plain white walls and vinyl floors as they dashed through the corridors. It had been sixteen years since Harry had set foot inside a Muggle hospital, and the smell had instantly transported him back in his mind's eye, to when he was a young boy of just nine and had to have stitches in his chin after falling in the school playground. It left Harry feeling faintly sick.

"Please lie down on the examination table, Mrs Potter," the doctor said kindly, and Ginny- looking pale and exhausted- nodded numbly, doing as she was told. The midwife held out a hand to Harry for the notes but with a knowing look at Harry, the doctor shook her head and took them instead. She dismissed the slightly bemused midwife then and waited until she had exited the room before speaking.

"Now as you know, Mr and Mrs Potter, your Healer in St Mungo's found an anomaly with your baby during routine diagnostic spells this morning, at Mrs Potter's twenty week check-up, and referred you here to UCH for assessment," she said in a low voice. The professor was a kind woman. She was a Muggle, but had a wizard cousin who was a Healer at St Mungo's, and had worked closely with the magical hospital for over ten years. She dealt with complex and problematic pregnancies for which magic couldn't help, whilst helping to keep the Statute of Secrecy in place. She opened the folder and scanned over the now- visible handwritten notes, jotted down onto the parchment in bottle green ink. Harry held his breath as he saw a frown of concern cross the doctor's face as she read. His eyes flittered to Ginny's face. Her lips were pressed together and her chocolate- brown eyes were huge and frightened.

"Okay," the doctor said after a few minutes, "I'm going to perform an ultrasound scan of your baby and have a look at what's going on. Are you aware of what this procedure entails, Mrs Potter?"

Ginny nodded. "Harry told me about them," she said in a tiny voice. It was the first words she'd uttered since the pair had arrived at the London hospital by taxi just under an hour ago. She reached out a pale, freckly arm, clearly searching for Harry, and he took her hand, holding it tightly in his own. Harry noticed her fingers were trembling. The doctor gave her a small reassuring smile and dimmed the lights. Instantly the monitor of the ultrasound machine became brighter, and looked like the old fashioned black and white television that Harry remembered Mrs Figg owning when he was a young boy. The doctor entered Ginny's name and date of birth into the computer, and tucked some tissue into the band of her trousers. She applied some cool jelly to her bare abdomen, and pressed the wand of the scanner against it firmly.

Harry looked at the screen, and his first emotion was one of relief. There was a baby on the screen: a live baby who was clearly moving. His relief was short-lived, however, when he looked at the doctor's solemn face. She wasn't looking at either him or Ginny, instead focussing on what appeared to be the baby's head. She was silent as she typed a lot of information onto her computer and appeared to be taking measurements of the baby's skull, nose and neck. She also seemed to be paying close attention to the arms and hands. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, she turned to them. Her expression was grim.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Ginny said, but the doctor simply shook her head, handing Ginny some more tissue to clean up the gel. After a minute, in which time the tissue had done nothing more than smear the gel around further, Harry's fragile temper snapped. He snatched the tissue from Ginny's hands and waved his wand, which removed all traces of the gel from his wife's skin, and then Vanished the sticky wad with an angrily called out "_Evanesco_" in the blink of an eye. The Muggle doctor's eyes widened momentarily as she watched the display of magic, but she quickly regained her professionalism.

"Let's discuss my findings away from here," she said. "The Quiet Room will be perfect for me to talk privately with you both." Harry felt his heart drop extremely unpleasantly at those words. Good news would have been shared there and then. Couples receiving reassuring, positive news are not herded into something called the fucking Quiet Room to get the results from their scans. The grip on his arm from Ginny's hand was painful, but he made no attempt to remove it.

They followed the consultant out of the scanning room, pointedly ignoring the couples in the waiting room who were excitedly gazing at the scan pictures of their babies- perfectly healthy, no doubt- and made the small walk to a room at the end of the corridor, away from the main goings-on of the department. The doctor opened the door for them, and as they stepped inside, it became painfully clear that Harry's worst fears had just been confirmed; the room was set up for parents to be told the worst possible news. It was neutral in décor, with calming prints of landscapes and famous landmarks adorning the large pale walls, and large spider plants and orchids in pots. There was also the tell-tale box of tissues on top of a small pine table, next to a squashy leather sofa. The doctor gestured for Harry and Ginny to sit on the sofa, whilst she took the free armchair opposite it.

"Please," Harry said as soon as the doctor had sat down. He could hear the fear in his own voice. "No beating around the bush. Please just tell us what's going on with our baby."

The doctor smiled at them both then, but not in a way that could have reassured Harry in any way shape or form. It was the same smile that Hermione had given him just after the loss of Sirius, and it was full of sympathy and completely devoid of amusement.

"St Mungo's," she began, her tone full of compassion, "identified an anomaly with the chromosomal make-up of the foetus this morning, and referred you here for a more detailed assessment. I've conducted a thorough ultrasound examination of your baby, and I regret to inform you that my findings are the same. Mrs Potter, Mr Potter, I believe your baby has a condition called Trisomy 13, commonly known as Patau's syndrome."

"And what is that?" Ginny asked, a tear track forming on her pale cheeks. "How can you treat it?"

Harry only needed to look at the doctor's face to know the answer: _You can't_. He closed his eyes, bit his bottom lip and tried in vain to keep his breathing even and calm, as a large buzzing sound began to flood his ears.

"Mrs Potter, Trisomy 13 is a chromosomal abnormality," the doctor said gently. "And it's an extremely severe condition. The majority of babies with the condition do not survive pregnancy, and for those that do, life expectancy is extremely limited. Most infants that survive pregnancy die within a few days of birth. Only ten percent of babies with the condition live to their first birthday, and all have serious, life-limiting health problems."

Ginny burst into tears, her hand pulling sharply out of Harry's grip and going to her stomach, where she cradled the small bump in her hands. Harry watched the scene stoically, feeling oddly detached. _No_. _This is not happening_.

"And you're positive, are you? That the baby has this condition?" he heard himself ask. The doctor nodded grimly.

"The foetus has many of the markings I would expect to see in one with this condition," she said. "The skull is extremely small and measuring only fifteen weeks in gestation, and there is a large pool of fluid at the back of the neck. At twenty weeks we would expect this nuchal fold to be no more than six millimetres thick, however in your baby it is ten. The foetus also has a cleft palate and lip, and there is an absence of the nasal bone. In addition to these findings, your baby also has a condition called polydactyly, which means there are extra fingers on each hand. Combined with the information about chromosomal abnormality from St Mungo's, I'd say I'm about as certain as I can be that your baby has Patau's. I would like, with your consent of course, Mrs Potter, to perform an amniocentesis test to confirm the diagnosis, but I would be incredibly surprised at this stage if the foetus didn't have the condition."

"What's an amniocen-whatsit?" Ginny asked. Her voice was breaking with the effort of trying to control her tears, and her eyes were red and blotchy. Harry continued to sit numbly as the doctor explained the procedure to her, staring at one of the pictures on the wall. It was of Niagara Falls. Harry had always wanted to go there. He'd read an article once in a Muggle magazine about a boat trip called the Maid of the Mist…

"…Harry!"

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and returned to the present. It still didn't seem real. Any moment now and he would wake up, realise that this had all just been a hideous dream, and they'd not yet gone to St Mungo's for their check-up, and he would laugh at himself for his ability to conjure such vivid and disturbing dreams. Because he was not currently sitting on a sofa in a Muggle hospital, being told his unborn child was going to die. He just was not.

"I was just telling Dr Carmichael that I will agree to this amniocentesis test," Ginny said, somewhat waspishly. "It's good that you were listening to something so important."

"I can perform this test now if you like, Mrs Potter," the doctor said. "I have a clear schedule this afternoon for once." Ginny agreed and stood up, wiping her eyes furiously on the back of her hand. The doctor opened the door to the Quiet Room, and they all exited.

It would have been obvious to anyone at that moment just what the nature of the news he and Ginny had just received was, and Harry felt as if every pair of eyes in the vicinity was on them. He may as well been ringing a bell and wearing flashing lights to attract attention, given how much everyone was staring, effectively making him feel like an animal in the zoo. He ignored the long- and wholly unwelcome- glances of sympathy he and Ginny were receiving from both staff and expectant mothers alike, only just biting down the urge to yell at them all to fuck off. They returned to the main area of the maternity unit and entered yet another room. It was smaller than the one where the scan had taken place, with a more comfortable bed, but had another ultrasound machine located within it.

Ginny signed the consent form then lay on the bed, and the doctor swabbed her stomach with alcohol. Then she applied more gel.

"I need to perform an ultrasound at the same time," she explained. "It's so I can guide the needle accurately."

For the second time that day, Harry saw the image of his baby on the screen, and he felt a sob rise in his throat, which he quickly swallowed. The doctor removed a long and extremely thin needle from its sterile pack, and explained the procedure to Ginny once more. Ginny gasped and cried out when the needle penetrated her abdomen, crushing Harry's hand in her grasp. Harry uttered soothing nonsense he didn't believe himself and stroked her hand with the pad of his thumb.

It was all over a few minutes later.

"I will have the results for you tomorrow," the doctor said, removing the gel for Ginny herself this time and handing her an aftercare leaflet. "You may have some vaginal spotting, and this is normal, but if you experience heavier bleeding, please do come back here, or make your way to St Mungo's." She gave them both that irritating, sympathetic smile again and Harry- his anger incredibly close to the surface right now- fought the urge to hex her. This bitch who had just given him the worst news of his life. He didn't care if the rational part of his brain told him it wasn't the doctor's fault, and she was doing her best to help them; it was easier to feel blame, fury, towards someone, than allow the grief in that was threatening to overcome him at the news that the baby they'd so desperately wanted was almost certainly going to be taken from them.

He and Ginny made an appointment for the following morning to return for the results and then numbly headed for the exit. They climbed into a taxi which was waiting on the rank and Harry told him the address for Grimmauld Place, which was no longer under the Fidelius Cham. The journey didn't take too long. Once they arrived, Harry paid the driver with a Muggle note, told him to keep the change, and escorted Ginny inside.

As soon as the front door closed behind them, Ginny broke down in huge, noisy sobs, causing the portrait of Sirius' mother to burst open and shriek. The rest of Grimmauld Place was unrecognisable from its time as the headquarters to the Order, but that bloody painting remained, still unable to be removed from the wall. And the mood Harry was in, he was suddenly glad for it. He drew his wand and cast every curse he knew, from a simple Stinging Hex to the Cruciatus Curse at the woman. He knew it couldn't actually hurt her, given she was just a painting, but she screamed and shrieked most satisfactorily all the same as Harry vented his feelings.

Twenty minutes later, completely spent, he forced the curtain closed across the paining once more and sank to the floor in an exhausted heap as the portrait fell silent. He noticed that Ginny was no longer there; he wondered when she'd left. He dragged himself up off the floor and headed into the kitchen. Ginny was sitting on a chair, an untouched mug of tea in front of her. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She was reading the aftercare leaflet the hospital had sent home.

"Sorry," Harry said. Ginny didn't look up. Instead she stood from her chair, tipped the untouched tea down the sink and left the room. Harry sank into her vacated chair, closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands.

* * *

Neither of them had gotten any sleep the previous night. Harry had lain awake on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling, whilst Ginny tossed and turned next to him, or cried softly into her pillow. Neither had spoken much.

At the first sign of dawn, they had risen from bed, dressed, and entered the kitchen. Harry made Ginny some toast, whilst touching nothing himself. He didn't think he'd be able to stomach anything that morning.

"I don't want it," Ginny said, as Harry slide two slices of wholemeal toast with Marmite towards her.

"You need to eat, Gin. It's not good for you or the baby to have an empty stomach." The words came out automatically, and Ginny visibly flinched. It hadn't been the most tactful of remarks, given the circumstances. Harry cursed himself for his stupid mouth and without another word of persuasion for his wife, Vanished the toast with a flick of his wand.

At half past eight, he and Ginny left the house, and Harry hailed a passing black cab. They arrived at the hospital just before nine. Their appointment was at nine-thirty so, as they had a few minutes to kill, they chose to take the stairs rather than the lift, each step echoing their footsteps noisily throughout the deserted stairwell.

Ginny sat next to Harry in the waiting area, and he took her hand firmly in his. He noticed she was trembling, and her skin was white. He knew he didn't look much better; he'd caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning and he was pale, his cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. His mouth was like sandpaper, he noticed, and stood abruptly, letting go of Ginny's hand and making his way to the water cooler on the opposite side of the room. He filled two small plastic cups with water, and returned to his seat, handing one of the cups to Ginny, who drank it. Harry suspected she was drinking it merely for something to do, as minor a distraction as it was.

Was it really only twenty four hours since they'd entered this nightmare? This time yesterday, Harry reflected, he and Ginny had been looking forward to their appointment at St Mungo's. They had been hoping to hear the heartbeat for the first time, and maybe even find out the sex of the baby. Harry had been so excited; it was the first of Ginny's antenatal appointments he'd been able to attend due to work commitments. And now, just a day later, they were in a different hospital waiting to be told if their child was going to live or die. Harry let the empty cup fall from his fingers and, with a dry sob, let his head fall into his hands.

"Mr and Mrs Potter?" Harry looked up as Doctor Carmichael appeared at the door. "Would you like to come in please?"

Harry took Ginny's hand and they stood. He noticed that Ginny was leaning on him heavily, and he put his arm around her shoulders.

"It'll be OK," he murmured, words he knew meant absolutely nothing to either of them at that moment, and supported his wife as they made their way into the room.

As soon as they sat down, Harry knew it was bad news. The doctor looked extremely grave.

"I have the results from the amniocentesis," she said, her voice gentle, "and they confirm my suspicions from yesterday. The foetus does have complete Trisomy 13. It's the most common, and severe, form of the condition, I'm afraid." She paused then and gave them both a look of pure compassion. "I am so very sorry."

"What happens now?" Ginny asked. She was crying now, tears glistening on her cheeks, shining in the harsh artificial lighting of the room. "I mean, what do we do?"

"You have two opinions," the doctor said. "You can choose to continue with the pregnancy and allow nature to take its course. This means you will give birth naturally, and is an option that some parents with babies suffering with the condition choose, as it does hopefully allow them some time with their baby and time to bond, if the child is born alive."

"What's the second option then?" Harry asked. He had a horrible feeling he already knew, and, when she spoke, the doctor confirmed it.

"The second option, Mr Potter, is that the pregnancy is terminated in utero," she said. "Many parents cannot face continuing with the pregnancy knowing that their baby die very soon after delivery, and opt for a medical abortion. They feel it is the lesser of two evils and that they're preventing their baby from suffering. They also feel they'd find it harder to cope if they lost the child after carrying them to term and spending time with them after birth, or if the baby died in utero and they had to have their labour induced and deliver a stillborn child."

"Oh God," Ginny whispered. "And we have to _choose_? I don't even know how to do that!"

"I will not persuade you in either choice," the doctor said. "There is no right decision. Only what is best for you both personally, and what you feel is best for your baby. We can arrange for you both to speak with councillors if you wish, but ultimately it has to be your decision."

"How is an abortion carried out?" Ginny asked. Harry's head snapped up to look at her.

"Gin," he began, not knowing how to finish his sentence. Surely she wasn't actually _considering_ that as an option?

"Well, it would depend on whether you chose to have the termination here or at St Mungo's," Doctor Carmichael said. "I'm not completely familiar with the procedure there, but as I understand it, it's very similar to how we carry out a termination here. You're given medication- a potion if you choose St Mungo's, I believe- which stops the foetal heart-"

Harry had heard enough. Without looking at the doctor or his wife, he stood abruptly and stormed from the room. He was not going to sit there and listen to the doctor explain to him and his wife how she or a St Mungo's Healer would terminate their child.

Ginny hadn't followed him out of the room. Harry began pacing the waiting area, desperately trying to calm down. He realised he was shaking violently. With a quick check for watching Muggles, and finding none, Harry drew his wand discreetly and performed a Cheering Charm on himself. Whilst the result didn't leave him feeling at all cheerful, it did at least have the desired effect of calming him enough to stop the trembling and allowed him to think straighter. He re-entered the room.

"I'm sorry for walking out," he said. "But that was just too much to hear at the moment." He sat back down and took Ginny's hand in his. Doctor Carmichael gave him that irritating sympathetic smile again but said nothing about it.

"It has to be your decision," she said, "but I urge you both to make it quickly. While it's not a decision that can be rushed, equally it's not one that you have the luxury of time to make. You're already 20 weeks and three days' pregnant, Mrs Potter, and if you choose a termination, it becomes more traumatic the further into pregnancy you are when it's performed."

"We're not terminating," Harry said. "You said yourself that ten percent of babies with the condition survive to their first birthday. I'm quite good at defying odds."

"Harry…" Ginny said, and Harry looked at her. He was shocked to see that she was far from agreeing with him, and felt a shard of ice-cold dread pierce his chest. His earlier fear was confirmed: Ginny was indeed considering abortion as an option. He snatched his hand from her grip.

"Ten percent of babies who survive pregnancy live to their first birthdays, Mr Potter," the doctor corrected. "And those that do survive have the less severe mosaic or partial forms. Your baby has complete Trisomy 13, meaning it affects every cell in the body, and it is fatal. Most babies with this form will die in utero, or during birth. And can I please remind you that those who do survive birth have an extremely poor, limited quality of life, suffering with life-threatening conditions. There have been no documented cases of exceptions to this, anywhere in the world to date. If you decide to continue with the pregnancy, we can only offer palliative care to your baby upon birth."

"Take me home, Harry," Ginny said, standing up abruptly. She was in tears again, and her voice was hoarse and barely more than a whisper. "Side-along me from here. Please. I can't face Muggle transport, not today."

"Gin, you know the risks of Apparition- Splinching the baby-" Harry said as he stood to join her, but Ginny interrupted him, angry.

"It's a tiny risk, you know that!" she snapped, "and I hardly see what difference it's going to make now, if the baby's going to die anyway!" She burst into tears. "That was horrible. I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry."

"Go home and discuss things with each other," Doctor Carmichael said. She handed them a series of leaflets. He caught the cover of the top one in Ginny's shaking hand- it was bright green and contained detailed facts about Patau's syndrome. 'Information for Parents', it said simply, in a plain white font, as if it was perfectly normal and routine to be told your child was going to die. "Do you have access to a telephone?" Harry nodded. There was a phone box on the corner of the square Grimmauld Place was situated. "Once you've made your decision, telephone me, and I'll arrange for you to come back in. And we'll take it from there, based on what you decide."

"Just one more thing before we go," Harry said. "In that leaflet you gave my wife about the amniocentesis test, it mentioned that you can tell the sex of the baby from it. Could you- I mean, if you know- are we having a boy or a girl?"

Doctor Carmichael looked in her notes for a second then took a deep breath.

"The baby is a boy," she replied, and it was all Harry could do to remain standing. He felt Ginny collapse against him.

"Thank you," he forced out. Then, obliging Ginny's easier wish, and he himself not wanting to spend a moment longer in the hospital, he took Ginny by the waist and turned on the spot, whisking them both away from the shocked doctor and Apparating into Grimmauld Place.

"What are we going to do?" Ginny said softly, once they'd made their way to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. Ginny curled herself into a ball, her legs tucked under her, stroking her bump.

"What do you mean, 'do'?" Harry replied, struggling to keep his voice even. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands, trying to rein in the wrath that was surging through him. "We going to have the baby. And we're going to spend some time with him before he's taken from us. I want to meet my son, and I want him to meet us. A couple of hours is better than nothing at all."

"But, you heard what the doctor said," Ginny said. "Chances are he'll die before then. And then I'll have to give birth to a stillborn baby."

"So we're not even going to give him a chance to meet us, because he 'might' die anyway?" Harry knew he was yelling now, and that he was scaring Ginny, but he couldn't stop himself. The grief he'd tried to keep under lock and key in his mind for the past twenty-four hours had bubbled up to the surface now, and was threatening to burst out of every pore of his skin. "It's OK for you- he's _inside_ you, you can feel him kicking and moving, and you've bonded already, but I've had nothing!"

"So you want me to go through with a pregnancy and a traumatic birth that will only end in tragedy, because it's 'OK for me because he's in me'?" Ginny shouted back. "Can you even hear yourself, Harry? Do you not think that because I can feel him in me moving, that I can feel him alive, that this might actually be _harder_ for me than it is for you?"

Harry realised that his cheeks were wet now, and his vision was blurred. He removed his glasses and swiped his hand across his eyes.

"You sound like you've already made your mind up," he said, defeated.

"The more I think about it, the more I think it's for the best," Ginny said. "Expecting me to carry the baby for another four and a half months, put myself through labour, and all the while knowing he's going to die? I can't do it, Harry. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"And I get no fucking say at all, right? Because I'm only the father, I guess. It's biologically impossible for me to carry the baby, so I get no say at all in what happens to him and can go fuck myself, right?" Harry snapped.

"Don't swear at me, Harry. And of course you get a say," Ginny replied. "But don't turn round and tell me you want what's best for me and him, when you want to put us both through suffering just so you might get the chance to hold him in a few months' time!" At this she dissolved into tears once more. Harry added another emotion to the fury and heartache he was currently feeling: guilt. He edged closer to his wife and put his arms around her.

"Look, I didn't mean that. I'm just upset, OK? We can't fight about this, Ginny. We just can't," he said into her hair. "If there's ever a time we need to stand united, it's now."

"I don't want to abort, you know," Ginny said. "I want to have him and hold him, and maybe dress him and take some photos for us to remember him by. But I don't want him to be born and suffer either. It's a horrible situation and I don't know what to do. And we need to make the best choice for him. Not us. Surely that's what you want too?"

"What I want? What I want is to be excitedly preparing for the birth of my baby with my wife, not planning how he's going to die," Harry rasped. "What I want is to have what everyone else has, just for once. A family of my own. What I want is to not have to make this decision in the first place. What I want my son." At these words, he broke. All the anger, grief, and helplessness spilt out in a tsunami of emotion he couldn't hold back. He was vaguely aware of Ginny holding him as he wept, violent sobs racking his body.

He thought he was done with losing people he loved. It had been seven years since Voldemort's defeat, after all. Apparently he was wrong. And now that which was most precious to him was being snatched away. Whether they aborted or took the pregnancy to term, they were not going to be bringing a healthy baby home from hospital, and the realisation of this had just slammed into him as brutally as if he'd been hit by the Hogwarts Express. And he knew even then that he might not bounce back this time. The famous Potter Resilience had failed him at last. Fate had struck its cruellest blow, and in that moment, Harry didn't know how to recover from it.


	2. A Grey Cloud Descends

_Thank you for all the reviews and alerts! _

* * *

**Chapter Two: A Grey Cloud Descends**

_Six months later…_

"I'm going out with the girls tonight," Ginny called to Harry. She appeared in the doorway of the living room, and Harry scarcely spared her a glance. Ginny was dressed in a short, scarlet, figure-hugging dress which showed off her shapely legs and tiny waist. Her hair was tied back in an elegant knot and pinned with a comb decorated with rubies. Her face was made-up, and she looked extremely pretty. Harry saw none of this.

"OK," he replied automatically, having barely heard his wife. He was currently sitting on the sofa, in the same clothes he had worn the previous day (and, if he was being honest, slept in that night too), staring out the window at the grey sky. Storm clouds were rolling in, bathing the London skyline in a dark, dreary blanket of misery. Harry looked up at a particularly violent-looking raincloud, thick and almost black, as it began to shed teardrops of rain, hammering the windowpane until the glass could no longer be clearly seen through the water. He started slightly when he heard the front door to Grimmauld Place slam shut, vaguely registered the fact that his wife had gone out, then he continued his staring.

It had been twenty-six weeks, four days, seven hours and- Harry checked his watch- eleven minutes since he and Ginny had lost their son. Harry absently fingered a locket which he wore around his neck, containing a single lock of auburn hair. It was all he had left of his baby boy.

Matthew Osiris Potter had been born sleeping on the ninth of October, 2005, at just twenty-one weeks gestation. He had weighed ten ounces, and had looked absolutely perfect, like a miniature porcelain doll. He'd had a Cupid's bow mouth, button nose, and a small amount of hair as red as any of his Weasley relatives. He'd also fit into Harry's palm with room to spare, he was so tiny. Matthew Osiris was not the name Harry had intended to give his first-born son, the name he and Ginny had chosen for their child if it was a boy, back when they first learnt they were going to be parents. They had agreed upon the name James Sirius, named for both Harry's father and godfather. He'd refused to use the name, when Ginny had tearfully asked him if he still wanted to call the baby that after his birth. James Potter was the name for a boy who was cheeky, full of life, and vivacious- a boy who was into everything and always getting into mischief, just as his grandfather had been. He was not cold and still and lying in a miniature grave next to his Uncle Fred with a posy of lilies resting upon it, born too early to even be officially recognised as ever having existed by either wizard or Muggle law.

Ginny had chosen Matthew. The name meant 'gift'. Harry had chosen his middle name. Osiris was an Egyptian god, god of the afterlife. It was fitting, and Harry just hoped that Matthew was being looked after by his grandparents, uncle, and countless others, all of whom were spoiling him rotten, wherever they all were. That thought was the only thing that got him through the day, because the alternative, that he was in some eternal extinction, was simply unimaginable.

Harry continued to stare unseeingly out of the window until the sky turned completely black. Then he stood, walked to the kitchen, and took a bottle of Firewhisky from the cupboard. He didn't bother fetching himself a glass.

Ginny arrived home again at around midnight, and found Harry completely inebriated and barely awake, slumped in the living room chair in the dark, the bottle of Ogden's empty and laying on the floor on its side. She sighed and bit her lip as her eyes welled at the sight- a sight that was becoming far too familiar to her. The inevitable row could wait until morning: Ginny simply pulled the crocheted Afghan blanket from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her now snoring husband and went to bed.

The morning brought a pounding headache and extreme nausea for Harry. He blindly made his way to the bathroom, retrieved a phial of Hangover Potion from the bathroom cabinet, and downed it in one gulp. Immediately he began to feel better- internally, at least. He looked in the mirror. He had lost a lot of weight in the last six months. His skin was gaunt and pale, his cheekbone prominent in his too-thin face. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles around them from weeks of poor sleep, and his chin and top lip were buried under nearly a week's worth of stubble growth. He peeled his smelly and too-baggy clothes from his body and stepped into the shower, trying to wash away the last remnants of his hangover in addition to four days' dirt.

He showered quickly and threw on the first set of clean clothes his hands touched from the closet in his bedroom. Ginny wasn't in there. He went downstairs quickly and found her sitting at the kitchen table, drinking from a cup of coffee and reading the _Prophet_.

"Rough night?" she said, not looking up. Harry slunk into the chair next to her.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said, pouring himself a coffee from the percolator.

"That's because you were passed out blind drunk on the sofa," Ginny replied. She finally put down the paper and looked at him. Her eyes were hard, and narrowed, and- Harry noticed- full of pain. "Harry, this is the third time this week, and Merlin knows how many times this month. This has to stop."

"I don't have a drinking problem," Harry said. "It just helps me… forget for a while."

"We've been over this," Ginny snapped. "You need to deal with losing Matthew properly! Masking it with Firewhisky isn't helping you. Harry, you're not coping, you're not eating, and you're drinking far too much. You're spiralling downhill and I'm worried that I'll be burying you next, OK?"

"We can't all pretend he never existed like you do," Harry yelled, and Ginny paled. Tears began to fall silently down her cheeks but she said nothing. Instead she sat there, staring resolutely at her husband. "I ask you when we can try for another baby, and you won't give me an answer. You refuse to even discuss it, Gin." He took a large drink of his coffee. "You're already back playing Quidditch, laughing and joking with your teammates like none of this nightmare ever happened."

"I won't try for a baby again until you've dealt with Matthew's death properly. I've told you that," Ginny said through her tears. "And don't you ever say I pretend he never existed. Just because I'm not drowning in a bottle of alcohol every sodding night and am actually trying to get on with my life and be happy doesn't mean I don't think about him all the time, that I don't cry for him too, but you never see that because you're so wrapped up in your own little bubble of misery!"

"Bollocks," he shouted. "You were back on a broomstick five weeks after he was born. You couldn't fucking wait. In a way, losing him was the best thing for you, wasn't it? Meant you didn't have to give up your precious Quidditch career for a few months."

Harry knew he'd gone too far. The cold, white fury on his wife's face told him that, but- as with anything these days- he just felt a stoic detachment to the whole situation. He definitely felt Ginny's anger, however, when she pulled her wand and sent a Stinging Hex at him.

"Harry, I love you, but at the moment I don't fucking well like you," she said, her voice venomous. "Look at you, you're a complete and utter mess. And you wonder why I won't try for another baby? You're grieving, and that is affecting the way you treat everyone, and we understand this, but you will not speak to me like that." She stood from the table. "Get some help, Harry. Professional help. I mean it. Because I'm not prepared to stand back and watch you destroy yourself." With that, she stormed from the kitchen, slamming the door so loudly it woke up the portrait of Walburga Black, who instantly began her shrieking. Harry just placed his head in his hands, then continued drinking his coffee.

* * *

_Harry, mate,_

_Want to meet up this evening for a pint or two? I feel like I haven't seen you properly in ages! I'm out on the Aitken murder case this afternoon, but how about we meet in the Leaky at six? I should be finished by then. _

_Ron._

Harry took letter from the leg of the official Ministry owl, and watched as it took off and flew back through the open window, before opening it and reading. He didn't bother replying. It wasn't as if his friends expected him to by now. The last thing Harry felt like doing was going for a casual drink and having to talk about banal, unimportant shit for two hours with Ron. However it was almost preferable to going home. He scrunched the letter into a ball and tossed into the rubbish bin.

It had been eight days since their row, and he and Ginny were still barely speaking. Harry had again refused to get professional help, maintaining he was 'dealing with it', while Ginny continued to insist that he was on the path of self-destruction. Harry privately conceded that she was probably right, but couldn't find it in himself to care. All he could see in his future was a large black raincloud, much like the one he saw out of the window of Grimmauld Place just the previous week, and as he hurtled nearer and nearer to the centre of it, he cared less and less about himself or anything around him. His work was suffering, his friendships were fragile, and his marriage was rocky, yet still Harry refused to sort himself out. Sometimes he thought he wouldn't even care if he went to bed at night and never woke up again.

Hermione had thrown around phrases such as 'severe clinical depression' and rattled off a list of treatments, none of which Harry was remotely interested in trying, Ron had patted him on the back awkwardly and told him it would be OK, and George had earned himself a punch in the face when he told Harry to 'snap out of it, mate.' He often caught his best friends and his wife talking in quiet voices while casting furtive glances in his direction, and knew they were discussing him. Harry simply pretended not to notice. Because if he acknowledged they were discussing him, he would have to acknowledge what they were talking about. And he wasn't prepared to do that.

At just after six that evening, Harry left the Ministry and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. His Apparition had been dicey recently; just a month ago he had Splinched the fingers off his left hand as he made the jump from The Burrow to Grimmauld Place. However, he made it to Diagon Alley intact with all his body parts intact and in the right place, and walked to the Leaky Cauldron entrance.

Harry spotted Ron's fiery hair, located in a booth at the far end of the bar. Ron smiled as Harry approached, but quickly sobered when the smile wasn't returned or even acknowledged.

"Thanks," Harry murmured, as Ron pushed a pint of something dark and alcoholic towards him. He picked up the glass and drank deeply from it, as if its contents were sugar water.

"Easy there, Harry," Ron said. Harry glared at him, but put the glass down. Ron passed a packet of cheese and onion crisps to Harry, who took them, opened the bag, and picked at them disinterestedly. Ron, however, seemed satisfied with this.

"So, mate, I, er, I wanted to talk to you about something," Ron began, and Harry looked up. Ron was running a hand through his hair and biting on his bottom lip. He wasn't catching Harry's eye. It was a long time since Harry had seen Ron nervous about something, but then again, Harry reminded himself, it was a long time since he had actually spent any time with the man. If Harry was being truthful with himself, a part of him hated Ron at the moment. He and Hermione had a two-year-old daughter, Rose, to whom Harry and Ginny were godparents- a beautiful toddler fully of energy, with ringlets of auburn hair that flowed over her shoulders, and piercing chocolate-brown eyes and a cheeky smile. Harry hadn't been able to bring himself to even look at a photo of the little girl since… since _it_ happened. So, in addition to being a failed father, crap friend, a crap husband, a crap Auror and a crap human being, he was also a crap godfather. He couldn't even remember the last time he saw Teddy. He balled his left hand into a tight fist, relishing in the sharp shock of pain he felt in his palm as his too-long ragged fingernails cut into the flesh; in his right he grabbed the pint glass and drank deeply again.

"…haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Ron said. Harry once again looked at Ron. He realised that Ron must have been talking for several minutes, all the while he was trapped once again inside his own head, alone with only his miserable thoughts.

"Um, no," he said. "I'm not really in the mood for chit chat tonight, Ron. Thanks for the pint. I'm going home." He stood up and began to walk towards the Leaky's fireplace.

"Harry!" Ron called after him. "Please, Harry! Don't run off, OK?" Harry didn't turn back around. Instead he took a pinch of Floo powder from the communal pot on the top of the fireplace, tossed it into the flames, and stepped inside. He called out, "Grimmauld Place!" and the last thing he saw before the fire swept him away was Ron's confused and devastated face.

Ron didn't attempt to follow Harry home. Instead, Harry spent the evening alone, staring at some mindless television programme on the TV he had insisted they installed after their marriage in 2002. Ginny made a chilli con carne for dinner, and served Harry a large plateful, but he only picked at the food, barely tasting the few mouthfuls he did manage. Food simply held no appeal to him any longer, each fork load feeling- and tasting- like soil in his mouth. Even treacle tart, something which he had once enjoyed immensely, no longer tempted him.

"Did Ron talk to you?" Ginny asked eventually. Harry looked up from his plate.

"I think so. I wasn't really listening," he said. Ginny sighed.

"Harry, he really wanted to speak with you this evening. You could have at least granted that to him."

"I'm going to bed," Harry replied. It was only eight in the evening, but being asleep was preferable to being awake. Besides, Harry was exhausted. He was always exhausted nowadays.

The best nights were those where he didn't dream at all. These were rare, even if aided by Dreamless Sleep, which Harry had taken so frequently just after Matthew had been born that he had built up both a tolerance and resistance to it. When such rare nights occurred-usually aided by alcohol- Harry didn't have to think or feel. He wasn't aware of anything: of his sorrow, or his pain, or his guilt and anger at the world. He just existed in a shell of obliviousness.

Other nights, Harry would dream of Matthew, alive and healthy. Usually Matthew was a baby in them, but sometimes he would be a toddler, or even an older boy. Harry had even dreamt once that he was on King's Cross Station, seeing him off to school for his first day at Hogwarts. Those dreams were wonderful, until the moment Harry awoke and raw reality crashed down around him, and he felt like he had lost his son all over again.

But worst by far were the nightmares: the gripping, terrifying dreams which plagued him most nights. The dreams were vivid, and extremely real to Harry when he was experiencing them. There was a recurring theme to them, even if the actual dream did vary somewhat: all involved a bloody, battered, tiny little body, and a voice which Harry knew to be Matthew's telling him repeatedly that he had to be aborted because Harry didn't deserve him, or deserve to be a father at all. Then Sirius, Remus, and his parents would each extend a hand to Matthew, and he would go with them willingly, without a second glance at Harry. Harry's mother would glare at him, and his father would tell him that Harry was a major disappointment to him, and that he never worthy of Matthew in the first place.

Harry would always wake from such dreams with a shout, his pillow and cheeks wet with tears. These were the only tears he ever allowed himself to shed.

Initially Ginny had suffered as much as he had with grief, mingled with the distress the termination had caused, and they had sought comfort in one another. But as the weeks spread into months, and Ginny slowly began to recover, the nightmares that plagued Harry, accompanied by the guilt and the overwhelming knowledge that his son's death was his fault, (because dishonest bastards like him didn't deserve normal lives), ate further and further into him, polluting his body and mind. Because, deep down he knew he deserved every bit of this feeling. Because he was nothing but a dirty, lying, cheating arsehole, who was finally getting his comeuppance, and didn't deserve to be happy.

* * *

_"Oh, god," Harry moaned, as the warm, wet, and oh-so-soft mouth engulfed him. "Merlin." The resulting chuckle reverberated around him, pushing him dangerously close to the edge already. He threw his head back and panted as sensation, overwhelming, glorious, Technicolor sensation consumed him. Harry fisted handfuls of hair and tugged, unable to control himself as the pace against him intensified. He couldn't help it: it was too good. "I'm… oh fuck, I'm going to…"_

_Harry never managed to finish his sentence. With a hoarse cry, his whole body stiffened and he came. It was a tidal wave crashing over him and Harry was struggling to stay afloat as he felt himself drown in pleasure. He shuddered and convulsed, and the hands wrapped in the hair must be pulling to the point of pain. Harry gasped for breath as he came down from the strength of his orgasm. _

_It was never like this with Ginny. _

_Harry pulled his lover to their feet and crushed his mouth against theirs, desperate, hungry. Passionate. _

_"This is the last time we can do this," Harry said breathlessly, as he buttoned his trousers back up. "It can't happen again. I'm getting married in three months."_

_Even has the words left his adulterous lips, he knew it was yet another lie. _

* * *

Harry got up the following morning feeling completely unrested. It had been a Nightmare Night, and he'd woken around four after Matthew in his dream told him he hated him, unable to go back to sleep and had just laid in the dark, listening to Ginny's soft, slow breathing as she slept. His shouts no longer woke her. Harry guessed she was used to it.

As soon as the alarm went off at seven, he dressed in his Auror robes and made his way to the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes blearily as he waited for the kettle to boil on the stove.

"Morning," Ginny said, as she entered the kitchen. She was already dressed in her Harpies robes. Harry felt an unexpected and irrational bubble of anger at the sight of them, and looked away from his wife. He heard Ginny take a long, exasperated sigh.

"I'll be done with training by midday," she told him, fully aware he could hear her even if he was refusing to acknowledge her presence. "Hermione is coming over for lunch." Harry made a non-committal grunting noise, and made the coffee. He drunk a cup quickly then, without so much as a goodbye to Ginny, turned on the spot and Apparated away to the Ministry.

It was nearing lunchtime when Robards called him into his office. A tall, stout and imposing man, Harry didn't like Robards anymore now than he had as a boy of sixteen when he'd accompanied Rufus Scrimgeour to The Burrow one Christmas. Harry had been in line to replace Robards as Head of the Auror Office when… _it_ happened. Now he was lucky if he could get through the day without screwing up.

"Sit down, Potter," Robards said. Harry sat. He had the feeling he was in for some sort of bollocking, but found he really couldn't give a fuck.

"Potter, can you please read over this report that you submitted yesterday?" Robards said, handing Harry a sheet of parchment containing an official write-up he recognised vaguely as one he had written the previous day. Harry took it from Robards and began to read. When he had finished, he put it down on the table and looked at his boss blandly.

"Well?" Robards said. Harry continued to stare blandly. "Fine. Let me elaborate." He picked up the parchment. "Potter, listen to this part of your report, please. '_I believe that Jacobs has been practising such spells now for at least two months. My son would have been two months old now if he had lived, and been born when he should have been. We called him Matthew. Although Jacob is a nice name too. It's a variant of James, which would have been Matthew's name if he had been born alive.'_"

Harry continued to just stare. Robards sighed.

"Look, Potter, I want you to go home. You're no use to me at the moment."

"You're sacking me?" Harry asked.

"No," Robards replied. His voice was uncharacteristically sympathetic. "It's an indefinite period of leave. Sort yourself out, Potter, then come back when you're fit for duty. You have the potential to be an outstanding Auror, but at the moment you're just not up to the level I need from my team."

"Fine," Harry said, standing abruptly. He walked away from Robards' office to his own cubicle, yanked open the drawer to his desk, pulled out the few measly personal possessions he had in there and, without a backwards glance to either Robards or his colleagues, stormed out of the Auror Office.

When he arrived home he could hear voices coming from the living room. It was Ginny, obviously home from practice, and Hermione. Harry remembered Ginny saying something about having lunch with her today. He hadn't really been listening. He stood in the hallway, listening.

"…got to tell him!" Ginny was saying. "I understand Ron's reluctance, but this isn't fair on Harry either. He's got a right to know."

"I know," Hermione said. "Ron tried to tell him yesterday in the pub, but Harry refused to listen and stormed out." She sounded like she was close to tears. "You know he's going to react badly. I mean, he's refused to even been in the same room with Rose since… well, you know, and we're both terrified this could be the straw that breaks the Hippogriff's back."

"I know," Ginny said. She, too, sounded upset. "But he reacts badly to everything all the time at the moment." She gave a shuddered gasp, as if trying to stifle a sob. "We can't go on like this. Losing Matthew- it crushed me, too, but he acts like he was the only one affected by it. He desperately needs help, Hermione. The littlest thing sets him off, I have to watch what I say and do all the time, and I'm terrified he's going to try and do something to himself." Harry heard her burst into tears. "And if he thinks we hid the fact you're pregnant again from him- Merlin, Hermione, I'm afraid of what he'll do."

Harry recoiled from shock. He felt completely numb- more numb than usual- as Ginny's words sank in. Hermione was pregnant. She and Ron were going to be parents again. They got to have two babies, while he got none. In that moment, he hated everyone. He hated his friends for having what he wanted. He hated his wife for refusing to try for another child. But most of all he hated himself, for being the cause of all this in the first place. He walked into the living room.

Both women turned abruptly to the door, and paled in equal measures. Hermione stared at him with wide eyes.

"You're pregnant again then," Harry said. Hermione nodded.

"Eighteen weeks," she said. "Harry, we tried to tell you."

"I know. I heard," Harry replied. He could feel himself shaking. He looked at Ginny, whose face was tear-stained. "I can't deal with this right now." He turned on the spot and Disapparated, leaving Hermione and Ginny alone.

"Shit," Ginny said. She put her head in her hands. "I didn't know he was there."

"I'll go and find him," Hermione said. "Please, Ginny. Let me speak to him, OK. I think I know where he is." She threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, stepped in, called, "The Burrow!" and disappeared.

Harry landed at the small cemetery in Ottery St Catchpole, and immediately made his way over to the tiny grave which held his son. Harry sank to his knees and brushed the dirt from the headstone, which simply held Matthew's name and date of birth. He hadn't wanted a fancy inscription, full of lying words which meant nothing.

The lilies on the grave were wilting. Harry Vanished them quickly and conjured a new posy of fresh flowers. He pulled up a few weeds from the graveside by hand, leaving his hands filthy and scratched. He couldn't care less.

"I'm so sorry," Harry said to the grave. It was all he ever said here. There was nothing else to say.

"Harry."

Harry refused to turn round at the sound of Hermione's voice, and gritted his teeth together. Couldn't she for once not stick her fucking nose in?

"I've got nothing to say, Hermione," Harry said. "Leave me alone."

"Well, I have a few things to say to you, but first of all, did you know you're bleeding?" she replied. Harry felt her hand rest softly on his arm. "Oh, Harry," she said. "Look."

Harry glanced down towards where she was indicating and realised she was right. There was a large gash in his right calf. He'd Splinched himself again, and hadn't even realised. He didn't object as Hermione knitted the skin back together with her wand.

"Thanks," he muttered, once she was done. "Look, Hermione, I'm not interested in your apology, alright, so you can save your breath." Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

"Apologise? What on earth do I have to apologise for, Harry? For living my life?! Oh, no. I'm not here to offer you an apology. I'm here to tell you that you're behaving like a selfish, wallowing, self-pitying prat, and that I've had enough. If anyone is owed an apology, it's us from you, not the other way around. That's what I have to say to you."

Harry did look up then. Hermione's lips were pressed firmly together and she was glaring at him.

"I'm sick of tiptoeing on eggshells around you, Harry," she said. "Everyone is treating you like an Erumpent horn that is about to explode at any minute, and I've had enough. Ginny is worried you're suicidal, Ron's actually _scared_ to talk to you- did you know that?- and frankly, Harry, you're falling so deep into depression that I'm frightened you'll never be able to climb out of it. This stops. Now."

"I'm not suicidal," Harry said. Hermione took his hand and smiled sadly.

"Tell me, Harry. If Voldemort showed up here right now, would you fight him? If he sent you back to King's Cross, or wherever it was he sent you when he cast the Killing Curse at you in the Forbidden Forest, would you choose to come back this time?"

Harry thought for a minute before answering. "No," he conceded eventually. "No, I wouldn't."

"Then you're not you anymore," Hermione said, and Harry could hear her voice crack. "The Harry Potter I knew would fight until he took his dying breath."

"I don't want to feel like this," Harry said. "It's just I… I…"

"You don't deserve to feel like this, Harry," Hermione said knowingly. "What happened with Matthew- this isn't some punishment for the past."

Harry felt his eyes fill up, but refused to let the tears fall. Instead he squeezed the hand that was still in his tightly, and gazed at his son's grave.

Harry hadn't meant to confide his affair to Hermione. He had blurted it all out in a drunken rambling about two weeks before his wedding to Ginny, when he'd finally ended the affair for good. To his immense relief she hadn't lectured him. She'd simply held him and let him talk, not judging him. She was the only person he was close to who knew the full story. Well, she and… he wasn't going to think about _them_ right now.

"Harry, please see someone. A mind Healer, or a counsellor, or something," Hermione continued. "I've been through too much with you, survived too much, to see this destroy you."

Harry realised his cheeks were wet. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, then he was engulfed in Hermione's warm embrace.

"Please," she whispered into his ear.

"OK," Harry said, clinging to Hermione, the only person in his life who had always been there for him, fighting his corner. Even more so than Ron, or even Ginny. She had never once let him down, ever, in fourteen years of friendship. "OK. I'll try."

Hermione wiped Harry's eyes with her thumbs and kissed the top of his head.

"Good," she said simply. "Let's get you back to The Burrow, and we'll Floo to Grimmauld Place together."

"Oh yeah, you can't Apparate, can you," Harry said. "I'm going to really struggle with that, you know."

"I do know," Hermione said simply. "Come on."

Together they walked across the village to the Weasley residence.

* * *

Ron was waiting at Grimmauld Place when Harry and Hermione arrived. He and Ginny both looked worried.

"Harry, mate," Ron began, but Harry held up a hand.

"I want to talk to Ginny," he said. Hermione squeezed Harry's hand one final time then said her goodbyes, whispering something that sounded like 'not now' to Ron, and pulling him back into the fireplace. As soon as they'd disappeared, Ginny shut down the Floo connection.

"I talked to Hermione," Harry said slowly. Ginny looked cautiously at him.

"And?"

"And I'll speak to someone. If you want me to," Harry said.

A smile- a true smile- spread across Ginny's face, and she threw her arms around him, holding tightly. Harry held her back automatically. He couldn't remember the last time they'd embraced.

"Thank you," she said.

* * *

Ginny had arranged Harry's appointment with a grief counsellor at St Mungo's. It was a week since Hermione had talked to him in the cemetery at Ottery St Catchpole, and now here he was, seven days later, sat in the reception area of the counselling clinic, waiting for his turn but certain that it wasn't going to do any good. The door opened and a woman perhaps in her early forties came out, her face pale and her eyes rimmed red. Harry stared at her. He would rather die than break down before the counsellor.

"You may enter now, Mr Potter," said the receptionist. Harry stood, crossed the small distance to the wooden door and placed a hand of the handle. With a final sigh, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

What he saw inside the small, neat room very nearly made him reach for the door and run straight back out. Because sat at the desk was a figure he hadn't seen for years, since the end of the war, and would have happily never seen again under any circumstances, let alone one where he was at his most vulnerable. For the grief counsellor was Draco fucking Malfoy.

"Hello, Potter," Malfoy drawled. "Please do take a seat, won't you."


End file.
